Cognitive Disco Dance
by Hugo V
Summary: Level-headed Masao navigates the pitfalls of romance with Yori, a brazen Magical Girl who thinks with her fists. *humor/drama/romance - OC/OC*
1. Testing the Waters

**Author's Note: The title is a play on the term, 'Cognitive Dissonance,' just in case it eluded you. By no means is this a shameless self-insert, I meant it as an alternative story line to run parallel with the original series with its own unique characters/plot/etc. Discretion is advised for violence and swear words.**

**I do not own Puella Magi Madoka Magica nor any of the anime's Affiliates**

* * *

"I feel like I'm traversing Gary Glitter's large intestine." I mutter, a sentiment caught by my travel guide's keen ears.

"You wouldn't be the first."

"Gross."

Nebulous nebula and impossibly convex/concave shapes coalesce into walls on either side of us, creating a tunnel that darkens as it deepens. Though it is my first time joining her on a witch hunt (and I think I'm doing pretty damn well) she offers no commendation.

"So why can't there be magical boys? Acting on behalf of my gender, I'd like to file a complaint with whoever, or whatever, twisted omni-god came up with this mess. Perhaps we can mediate something less sexist..." My attempt to lighten the mood is met with a leveling glare. "Sigh."

"Don't say, 'sigh.' Frankly I have no idea how you can be so nonchalant."

"Hey, I'm a laid back kind of guy."

In actuality, I'm having a small existential crisis. It's as if I were looking into the heart of a thousand dimensions as it's pumping not blood, but multi color yarn. Tesseracts and tesla coils spiral on the edge of my vision, making/unmaking/remaking pictures. It is very distracting, and disconcerting - enough so that I feel like emptying my stomach. She'd probably give me a good smack across the head and the label of 'wimp' if I did though, so I shut my eyes and continue forward.

When I bump into her back with a slight jolt, "Hey!" I open them again. She's trained her gaze on me, a familiar expression on her furrowed brow; it's one of aggravation.

"Watch where you're going."

"Yeah yeah, sorry. It's just taxing on my brain. I'm pretty sure I saw a discarded couch float by. It was practically brand new, who would throw something like that away?"

"Ha-ha." She faux laughs, though the nigh invisible twinge of a smile on her face tells me she found some amusement in the joke. "The witch is close. Are ya ready?"

"Well, let's have a full run down. I learned far too early this morning, six o'clock to be precise, that you were a self-proclaimed 'magical girl' with the ability and responsibility to fight... corrupted spirits is it? And you were given said supernatural powers by an equally supernatural cat on the basis of using them to fight evil. In return you were afforded a single wish, that of which could be spent on anything under or over the sun, and you chose to... do what again? Did you ask for world peace or a hundred billion yen - no more witches even? Those seem like the more obvious choices, but hey, I'm neither magical nor a girl. And then to prove your point - which I didn't have the patience to doubt - you drag me into the undulating, space-time-anomaly home of despair's palpable manifestation to watch you two duke it out."

I take a much needed breath.

"In response to your question, yes, I'm ready. But only because I'm pretty sure this is all a dream and nothing I say or do really matters."

She answers my diatribe with a blank stare, her lips parted ever so slightly, then murmurs, "Let's go then."

We walk through the cavernous remains of a neon cathedral, braving a surrealist landscape so breathtaking as to suffocate, so jaw-dropping as to starve. When I wake up, I'm definitely analyzing this weird ass shit.

As she walks a few paces in front of me, a flash of light envelops her in itself, then dissipates. She's now wearing an outfit very unlike her school uniform; it's lined with frills and voluminous - puffy - the visual equivalent of a lollipop. It shows a great deal of leg, and I'm glad no one is around to see this but a dance troupe of spastic radishes, and they seem more concerned with keeping step with each other. She looks over her bare shoulder and shoots me a wink. My composure falters.

One by one the seemingly docile pieces of scenery take notice of our presence, tensing in anticipation as we pass. Faceless, two-dimensional mannequins creak to life, somehow following our movements as we gain speed. Their cloth carapaces vanish into the distance as we break into a run, entering a wide, dome-like chamber complete with what looks like parapets and terraces, presumably drawn by some clumsy, crayon-wielding toddler.

In the center sits what I can only assume to be the-

"Witch. And a big'un at that."

Taken aback, I ask, "Where's the broomstick? Or the silly wart nose? This thing's not even wearing a hat." I wish it were trite, that way I wouldn't have to wrap my head around this monstrosity. At first glance it appears to be constructed entirely of gaudy brick and stark white mortar, but at second glance the true details come into focus. Its head, by very loose definition of the word, is a massive fire-spewing furnace locked in place by a web of ribbon and twine. With each moltenous breath, they singe black, then return to their original shades.

"Stay safe while I deal with 'er, it won't be too long."

The mannequins we'd ditched only moments before are rising like threatened snakes from the ground, their intentions clear as they begin shambling vaguely in our direction. I nod in affirmation, and when situated in a secure area shout, "That's my girl!" and duck, watching from behind an overturned plastic horse twice the size of the real thing.

She removes a scabbard from a hook on her waistband, raising it to her eyeline, then slides the scimitar it held into the opposite hand - her right. The witch rakes away a swath of floor in a single fell swoop, disturbing a bed of semi translucent dust. It throws a mist over the scene, but in spite of this I'm positive it missed its target. My girlfriend's poised, airborne figure confirms this. She dives, but the witch is agile and dodges, splaying its weighty arms behind it to hop to the side in an incredible 'fuck you' to physics.

Landing in a tumultuous doll mob, she dismembers them with little trouble - each of her measured swings flow in a rhythm that matches the sudden battle music. It's loud, chattering, shuddering chords resemble a classical composition, minus the composition part; it's as if the Philharmonic Orchestra hosted an orgy mid-concert. Vuvuzelas abound.

Suddenly left is right, up is down, in is out and denim vests come back into fashion. Reality, or what passes for it here, rolls over, and any purchase my feet had on the ground goes into foreclosure. I'm scrambling through open air, counting my few blessings, until one of them catches me in her arms. I try not to swoon as she gives a cocky grin. As we're falling (a fact she seems unaffected by) the witch passes by in the background. Assuming that gravity has no say in this vexing realm, I venture a conversation.

"How's the fight going? - it's difficult to tell."

"Another minute and we're outta here."

"I think another minute'll kill me."

"It had better not," she frowns, "I've put a lotta stock in you." Wind whips past us both, tossing my hair but leaving hers perfectly coiffed. She leans down to plant a kiss on my lips - it's brief, but passionate.

"My heroOO-!"

The force of the touchdown, while not rattling her delicate frame in the least, sends my generously larger body tumbling across the ceiling.

"-O_OoO!"_

The witch impacts nearby, crushing several of its minions; these guys need a union. Having proven to be more nimble than it looks, the behemoth climbs to its trunks and bellows green flame in protest of recent events. Before it seemed angry; now it seems absolutely livid. Its blows are no longer aimed - they fly in a manner dangerously unpredictable. My protector is nowhere to be seen, existing only in reddish-purple blurs as she slashes with the speed and precision of a master swordswoman years her senior. The cacophonic milieu accelerates, the end is in sight.

The witch's arm separates from its owner in a shower of rock and orange gore. The wires keeping its furnace battened fail - they thin, then snap, unleashing an inner inferno to match the rage of Pompeii. The plaster walls nearest it blister and bubble as a wave of dizzying heat sweeps over me. Five or six mannequins caught in the immediate blast range immolate, their legs collapsing into ash beneath them.

Undeterred and unfettered, my girlfriend continues her merciless assault. Four additional strikes rend the witch apart, and as the music climaxes, it explodes.

"Yori!" I yell her name, shielding myself from the sure-to-be-fatal aftermath. My head is swimming in galaxies and my forearms feel like the useless protection they are. The temperature rises, a plume of destruction wells up to reach me - a shock of rainbow hues cloud my vision, and... nothing.

The air is thin - it's freezing. A gust drags at the hem of my untucked dress shirt as I lower my guard to peek past it. There stands Yori, proud and just a tiny bit smug with what I can now safely label a victory. I spin in place, scanning for any flitting remnants of the clusterfuck world I managed to survive, but none are there. Above us are blue clouds, a gathering storm, and below me lies the Tokyo cityscape.

"We're alive." I state. My observation hangs sheepishly between us.

"How do y'know that?" She responds, hand on her hips as her battle costume melts away into the normality of her school uniform. It is pristine, pressed, and wrinkle-free.

"Call it a hunch."

My smile isn't genuine, but without it I feel vulnerable. Cradled in Yori's cupped palm is an orb latticed by a silver frame; inky smoke snakes around its insides, curling, expanding, compressing.

"Care to explain?"

"More than I already have?"  
"If you will," I say, then add, "Curiosity is healthy."

"It's a grief seed. Witches drop 'em after they've been-"

"Thoroughly eviscerated. Speaking of which, wow. Awesome work."

She's visibly annoyed at the interruption, but nonetheless flattered by my comment.

"Go on," I urge.

"As I was sayin'," I cringe at her informal Kansai dialect, a habit I've yet to shirk, "grief seeds are like a reward for killin' witches. They help purify a magi-girl's soul gem after a rough 'n tumble. Like this." Yori connects the 'seed' in her hand to a new ball she pulls from a hidden pocket, burnt orange like her hair and eyes. The pollution in it dissipates. "This way I can use my powers freely."

I think on it a moment.

"That's an incentive. Not a reward," I exclaim. She grits her teeth.

"Ya don't say."

"I do. As I figure, you're not gaining anything. It's like being given more basketballs for making a basket. Sure, you'll be able to keep playing, but you can't leave the court. Is this metaphor pellucid?"

"What? Use real words please."

"Is it comprehensible? What advantage do these 'grief seeds' afford you beside the encouragement to kill more witches? More 'grief seeds,' more witches. More witches, more 'grief seeds.' Do you understand? It's a cycle, isn't it?"

Yori jabs a sharp finger into my sternum aggressively enough to push me back and stares me down until I had no choice but to closely examine my shoelaces. Then she speaks, and it is _I_ who understand.

"I'm not at any liberty to complain about the hand I was dealt coz I wanted it - I made a contract, an obligation. I'd be fine with no encouragement, no 'incentive' at all," she spat, "but it comes with the job. I don't kill witches, I protect people Masao. From the dark. From the evil that would swallow 'em up soon as look at 'em. This is the life I'm sworn to and you should be grateful I've shown it t'you 'stead a' hidin' it."

Of all the carefully arranged thoughts in my head, I can find none that would earn me anything but a slap. Still, a slap is less painful than silence.

"What was your wish, Yori?"

"That's my own business." It leaves her pursed mouth as a hiss, warning me to leave the subject alone. She exhales, her features softening; a tired frown replaces her grimace. "Anyway, I'm exhausted. Let's call it a day."

"Yes. Let's."

* * *

**And that concludes the first chapter. I hope you enjoyed it, and feel more than free to tell me what you think. :)**

**/(o w o)\**


	2. Duties

**Author's Note: Despite this fic not getting too much attention, I love it enough to trudge on regardless! With gusto!**

**I do not own Puella Magi Madoka Magica nor any of the anime's Affiliates**

* * *

My cellphone rings from its place on the bathroom countertop, vibrating in increments as a cheery tropical beat mambas away in the background. Just as expected. The screen illuminates a uniquely artificial shade of blue, the name 'Yori Noda' popping up in teal text. Having left on a bad note earlier that evening, I decide to indulge in some harmless levity.

I pick up, speaking unintelligibly into the receiver, "Uhm flosheen."

"Huh?" She replies, and I hear her release what I can only assume to be a held breath. Good. I continue my charade.

"I'm flossing."

"How did you pick up the phone then, smart guy?"  
"I floss with one hand."

"Shuddup."

"I assume you didn't call with the sole purpose of undermining my dental hygiene."

"Err," Yori stammers, hesitant, "I wanted to talk about what happened today. I showed ya some really crazy stuff."

"Let's not beat around any proverbial bush. I was belittling, and short-sighted. I shouldn't have questioned you the way I did and I apologize. I'm sorry Yori. It is evident the job you perform is far more complex than I made it out to be."

What follows is a lengthy pause that drags enough to warrant a cautionary, "Hello?"

"... I forgive you I guess."

"I suppose I could forgive you as well," I say beneath a grin, and I hope she can hear it.

"What's that supposed ta' mean!?"

"On several occasions I nearly died. That does not count in your favor-"

"-hah, sorry sorry sorry-" Yori interjects, once again in audibly high spirits.

"-I mean, if you weren't there to catch me... and then there was that whole walking volcano deal. So next time I'll carry a weapon to defend myself with."

"Next time?" She asks, unabashedly excited, "I thought you might've been scared off!"

"Scared? Have you even met me?"

Hell yes I was scared. Terrified even - mortified, horrified. But I'd never admit it. As she changes the subject to a less immediately relevant topic, I scan myself in the mirror. Yori's idle chatter serves as white noise while I rake a hand through my dark red hair, clutching it in a fist at the apex. My eyes absently wander to my sullied school uniform, an article I'll need for tomorrow morning; it needs to be washed and ironed, the torn tie replaced or at the very least stitched. It's workable.

"-and like ya know, history is my least favorite subject next t'math, so I was thinking you could maybe be the lovable nerd ya are and help a lady with her foibles."

I regain lucidity, answering with a curt, "Tutoring, you mean."

"Yes."

"I would be honored." Wait, did she just...

...say...

"Foibles?"

"Fuckin' foibles is right," she exclaims, something akin to pride in her voice; it turns sly in an instant. "Is my book talk makin' you hot under the collar?"

"It just came out of left field is all. I didn't expect you to use 'foibles,' 'fucking' or otherwise," I helpfully elucidate.

"You're horrible at flirting, Masao," Yori states in a dry groan.

"Is that what we're doing?"

"Anyway, how does tomorrow sound? At 4, my place?" She suggests, and I mentally check my schedule.

"I have student council obligations till 4, can we meet up at half past?" I ask, deftly unbuttoning my dress shirt as the cellphone sits wedged between my ear and shoulder.

"Sure thing Mister Important, see you then. G'night, sleep tight."

"Sweet dreams, sweet dreamer."

I disconnect, lower the phone, and turn my wrists against the countertop; supporting myself on them, I stare pensively at my reflection. It stares back, looking tired. I retire to bed. The night passes quietly.

Morning arrives in golden dress, waking me via window. I huff in protest, the only thing I can process this early being the digital clock on my side table, reading 6 11. Groggy and weak, I drag the covers off and expose my skin to the biting air; I hobble to the shower, collecting my clothes along the way. A sock here, a shoe there… I really should be more organized.

The hot water symphony with steam accompaniment is loud enough on my body to fully rouse me. A short washing later and I'm fresh-faced and dewy eyed, ready to take on whatever obstacles lay ahead; that list has grown recently.

A mile's distance from my apartment complex, the school waits. As I make the trek, bantering with friends nonsensically, Yori brings up the rear.

"Mornin' Masao!" She chirps, looping an arm around my hip in an affectionate gesture not unnoticed by my smirking peers. Tadashi, a fellow student council member, is especially vocal.

"_Mornin' _Yori!" He mocks, earning a few side giggles. I shoot him an unamused glare - it's ultimately ineffective.

"Oh," she smiles, perking up, "Good mornin'."

I grit my teeth at her cheerful naivety as it has the opposite effect on Tadashi.

"And the same to you, Masao," he says.

I nod. "Yes, Tadashi. Good morning."

"Couple of the guys are hanging out after school today over at the park - we thought you'd maybe join us?" He proposes, and I can tell it's a genuine offer. Yori lightly pinches my side, that of which she's still attached to.

"Regretfully, I cannot."  
"Aw, why's that?"

"Prior obligations," I respond, and Yori nestles into my shoulder with a murmur of contentment. Tadashi glances at her, then slows.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

I come to a halt, "Go on ahead, Yori," and turn to face him. She complies, uneasy. When she's a quarter block away, Tadashi begins his predictable 'what are you doing' lecture; it isn't the first.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking the brunt of your condescending bullshit."

He grimaces. "She's not good for you man, no way no how."

"Sure, Yori isn't academically inclined, but that doesn't give you the right to judge her. Don't think I missed what you did back there." I point, my features sharpening as I attempt to intimidate. I have a few inches on him in the height area, which doesn't hurt.

"Get your priorities straight," Tadashi warns, "You've been distracted ever since you started dating her a month ago - you're totally out of it. I'm not asking you to break up with the girl or anything, but like I've said before: organize yourself."

"I appreciate your concern, I do, but my work is always quality," I answer, composed, "Yori doesn't enter the equation."

"Alright man, I'm just trying to help. If you change your mind about the park, tell me. See you later." Tadashi waves, rotates, and melts into a group of passing high schoolers. I spot Yori at the far end of the inclined road, watching me with an expression made indeterminate by the distance between us. Regardless, it gives me chills. She crests the hill and vanishes.

My classes are anything but boring, having the passion for knowledge that I do, but they still crawl by at an unnatural dawdle. Nevertheless I'm entertained. I find it's all about being receptive, attentive, segmenting the lesson into more easily processed portions, taking thorough notes.

When the final bell chimes and the last block concludes, I travel to science hall where student council holds their meetings; the twelve of us, led by President Katsuo, discuss in depth the details of the upcoming winter formal. Twice I catch Tadashi's eye. The session finishes late. It's 4 12.

Idling patiently outside in the school courtyard is Yori. The brick-bordered plots reserved for flower beds in the summertime have succumbed to frost, now resembling a wild patch of underbrush. She hasn't seen me yet, so I take the opportunity to do my best 'gaze of adoration.'

Yori Noda is a special kind of pretty. Her shoulder-length orange hair manages to look simultaneously disheveled and styled, and the ridge of her cute button nose is dotted thick with freckles that span ear to ear. She's evokes the beauty of a minimalistic room hosting tasteful furniture that, while visually appealing, is also comfortable. Practical. Cozy.

"A minimalistic room?" She guffaws, "Lame..."

"It sounded better in my head."

Yori takes my hand as well as the lead, marching us to her home step by heavy step. We arrive on her street by the half hour mark.

"Ya ready?" She asks. I steel my resolve and return:  
"As long as your dad doesn't hug me again."

Yori giggles, most likely at the memory of me being strong armed by her doting, hands-on father during one of my previous visits. He's a jolly man with fat cheeks and a fat everything else, and as he opens the door (almost as though he's been expecting us) his face shines bright and beaming. He wraps himself around me before I can protest.

"Masao, Masao! How great it is t'see ya!"

There's only so much I can reciprocate without the use of my upper body so I don't bother to try. My wince is blocked by his generous bosom, "And you, Mr. Noda."

He releases me and pats non-existent dust from my shoulders, then relieves me of his attention by asking, "And Yori. How was school, sunshine?"

Her grin rivals her father's as she replies with an excited, "Fantastic! I got a 93 percent on a math quiz! Not bad, huh?"

"Excellent!" Mr. Noda smothers Yori with a hug of her own and she erupts in a fit of muffled giggles. "Well then, I'm off ta' pick up some groceries. Mom'll be back back before I am, so don't get up t'any mischief." He raises a thick finger in my direction, then fixes it on Yori. "It's you I worry about, not him." We all share a laugh before he leaves, and when he does, I exhale.

"I-"

"Oh give it a rest," Yori cuts my complaint short. Entering the kitchen, we seat ourselves at the oak zataku and begin our discussion.

- "They didn't have pianos in 1500s..." -

- "Pi never ends, an attractive thought indeed..." -

- "You should never rhyme 'wisdom' with 'jizzum..." -

We make definite progress...

- "Instigating the conflict, the- MMmmfF!" -

For a small while...

As 4 30 stretches to 5, and 5 to 6, we finish. Mrs. Noda, a stout woman closely resembling her daughter, invites me to stay for dinner. I graciously accept.

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**I hope you liked it, I have a definite plan in mind. ;) Review at leisure. **


	3. The Drive

**Author's Note: This'll be a shorter chapter, more of a brief intermission per se. The next one will be longer. **

**I do not own Puella Magi Madoka Magica nor any of the anime's Affiliates**

* * *

The evening is crisp, but not cold; dim, but not dark. A thick, nighttime aroma unique to early winter envelops me and the Nodas as we lounge outside on four deck chairs, sipping from our respective cups of coffee. A bridge of stars just barely visible spans overhead in a wide arc as crickets sing flat lullabies in the background. We've lapsed into a comfortable bout of silence.

It is soon broken.

"Masao," Mr. Noda begins, and I tense in anticipation of whatever he plans to ask. It wouldn't be the first time he's embarrassed me. "Whaddya think of my daughter. Describe her in one word."

"_Dad." _Yori jokingly slaps his upper arm in protest, but it's weak, and I can tell by the bashful way she turns to look at me that the question isn't undesired. Mrs. Noda cradles her mug in two hands, peering over it as a smile grows on her half-illuminated face. Its pearl crescent resembles the moon. Her personality and demeanor are similar to mine; we get along well.

"Go ahead, Masao," she urges, firm yet polite.

Describe Yori in a single word? Capricious, hot-headed, rough, spontaneous, naive; equally graceful, well-meaning, loyal, sprightly, charming-

"Magical," I finally respond. She grins, shoots me a wink, and pushes her father for a second time.

"Ya happy now?"

Mr. Noda laughs from his belly, nodding through closed eyes. "Hah! Good answer!" Mrs. Noda takes a drink and chuckles at her husband's familiar tendency to overreact. It proves infectious as both Yori and I begin to giggle as well, only fueling Mr. Noda's mirth. Later on, as he drives me home, I thank him for dinner.

"She's had a crush on ya for the longest time," he divulges, less-than-subtly changing the subject, and I turn to look at him from the passenger's seat. It's surprising news, and not the kind it seems he shares lightly. There's a serious shade to his expression, foreign on such an upbeat man. "Just her luck ya'd feel the same."

"It's funny, I hadn't even noticed her for the longest time. Then I did, and it was if the colors I'd been seeing before were all muted. Meeting Yori shifted them into focus - if that makes any sense." Mr. Noda nods, I continue. "I know it's only been a month, but it feels like years. I kind of fell in love out of the blue, can you blame a guy? Your daughter is exceptional."

"She is, she is." Mr. Noda's stern composure is beginning to make me regret being that honest. The creases around his forehead loosen; that's better. "You'll be goin' ta Tokyo U, I'd think."

"I..." The inquiry catches me off guard, not a terribly difficult task as proven by the last few days. "I'll be submitting an application to Tokyo University, yes. Whether or not I'm accepted is another matter entirely."

We spend the remainder of the ride in silence.

* * *

_The bathroom tiles, though neatly arranged, look distorted through Yori's tear-filled eyes. She clutches tight, knuckles white, at the edge of the sink. Next block will be starting soon, and if she doesn't compose herself before then it'll be another skipped class. On the ground by her shoe is a partially torn schedule sheet folded twice over - wrinkles like veins._

_ Yori delivers a half-hearted kick, sending it sliding to the nearest wall. She's wracked with sobs, her shoulders quaking and sore, so sore, from an agonizing hour of crying. Other girls come and go, usually opting to take a different lavatory instead of interrupting Yori; she doesn't bother to hide in a stall. The echoes' mockery will still find her there. _

_ "What an idiot."_

_ -the mean students jeer her directly. _

"_I feel so sorry for her." _

_-the kind ones patronize. The teachers give her unwanted special help. And then there's Masao. Masao, Masao. He who would offer a smile instead of criticism, an ear instead of a mouth. Masao._

_ Steeling herself, Yori checks her reflection in the mirror. Thin rivulets of mascara have dried into lines on her cheeks - her hair is messier than usual, or wanted. There's not an ounce of propriety about her, and it hurts imagining what Masao might think; not _say, _but _think_. She runs the tap and allows it to heat for a moment before applying the water to her chaotic face. _

_ "Hello," a genderless voice speaks from behind her, falsetto enough to belong to a female but boyish in lilt. Aggravation takes hold of Yori - she restrains herself. _

"_I'm fine - don't want or need your pity, thanks." _

"_Oh, it's nothing like that. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kyubey!" _

_Feeling uneasy and growing more so by the second, Yori turns around. She does not know what she expected to see, but it was definitely not a malformed cat-creature. Her breath catches in her throat as she stammers incoherently._

"_I- wha-"_

"_Don't be alarmed, I'm friendly." The cat chirps, an enviably cheerful ring to its tone. Her feet in disagreement with the rest of her panicked body, Yori is frozen. She dares not blink, should the indeterminable animal in front of her show its true colors; that's what always happens in movies, you see - turn away for a minute and BAM!_

"_You look nervous." _

"_I'm not." Yori responds, almost before Kyubey finishes. _

_ "Okay! That's great." They stare at eachother for a partially analytical, partially timid, all ridiculous moment before Kyubey shuffles his paws and puts it upon himself to carry the conversation. "I'm here to grant you any wish your heart desires." _

_ ..._

_Yori blinks, then deadpans, "Is that right." _

_ Kyubey nods, his infernal, eternal smile ever-present. "Under one condition! You, Yori Noda, will be obligated to fight witches wherever you may find them as part of the deal. This is a duty you'll be sworn to for the rest of your life, as a magical girl!"_

_ "Witches?" _

_ "They're the polar opposite of magical girls: corporeal despair. These monsters feed off of susceptible humans, hopping from place to place to sate their limitless gluttony!" Though the subject matter was becoming increasingly bleak, the curious cat's felicity was immune. The tilt of its snowball-white head belied the severity of its explanation. _

_ "And I can wish for anything?" _

_ Another nod. Yori clasps her hands together, mirroring Kyubey's delight. _

"_What do I have ta' do?" _

_His expression shifts imperceptibly. _

"_It's easy! Make a contract!"_

* * *

**Reviews are always welcome. ;)**_  
_


	4. Party at the Hama Rikyu

**Author's Note: Hope you enjoy this chapter - more on the way!**

**I do not own Puella Magi Madoka Magica nor any of the anime's Affiliates**

* * *

After school the following day, late afternoon, I receive this message:

'got another witch meet me at the hama rikyu garden in 30 and bring something heavy ;) 3'

I snap my phone shut and do a mental inventory of anything in my house that might constitute as a weapon. There are no firearms to speak of, nor blunt objects to wield (such as a baseball bat or crowbar.) I suppose my tripod is viable, but it's cumbersome and prone to collapsing. There's a spare pipe beneath the kitchen sink, though it's short range; recalling the mannequins, I think it best to proceed with a tool less likely to get me into a hand-to-hand combat scenario.

And then I remember.

Oh yes, that'll do.

The metro ride to Shiodome Station is uneventful - dull, even. I would never have classified it like that before, having always enjoyed going out in any capacity. Still, after bearing witness to the messy demise of a three story tall chimney demon and its horde of animated puppets, I find myself not easily excited by trivial things that would otherwise hold my interest. Am I becoming jaded?

I leave the plaza, escaping from a navy tide of business suits and rushing men, and head in the direction of the bay. The weather is pleasant, negating my scarf and jacket; grey and brown respectively, they give me an air of square-bodied professionalism, something I like too much to remove, regardless of the temperature. Yori greets me halfway between the station and garden, beaming.

We hug, and as she pulls back, asks, "What's this?"

"A duffel bag," I answer, resting it on the ground. "Care to guess as to what lies within, Miss?"

"Old gym clothes, Mister?"

"Nuh-uh."

"A trillion yen?"

"I keep that at home. Speaking of which, you know how my front door jams a bit on the divide when you try to open it, ever so occasionally getting stuck?" Yori nods. "Well my mother, paranoid as she can be, purchased a..." I retrieve the item and brandish it proudly. "In case we have to bolt in an emergency."

"A fire axe." Yori giggles.

A group of nervous passerby give me a wide berth as I reply with a resounding, "Yes!" Interested by her reaction, I inquire, "Should I have chosen something else?"

"No, just wasn't expectin' it - thought you'd get a golf club, or a vase. "

I smack my forehead. "Why didn't I grab a vase? And to think I went with this," I joke, rotating it to inspect both sides. Its stock sits comfortably in my grip.

"Alright, alright." Yori withdraws her soul gem, rolling it in her palm. It gives off a faint glow. "There's a witch nearby - gotta' follow the signal." I nod and she begins to walk, taking the lead as I, having stowed away the axe, follow close behind. As we border the bay adjacent the Hama Rikyu, I establish a repartee.

"It seems kind of public for a witch to be traipsing about, no?"

"They're mostly dormant if an area's too busy. I dunno' that much, but barriers are usually easier ta' find than this." Yori furrows, shaking her color coordinated orb. In the dusky, dying sunlight, it flickers like an orange firefly. We're eventually brought to a secluded nook a little ways from the path, bereft of maintenance. The way her look of frustration turns to smug satisfaction tells me we've hit the mark. The swirling, headache-inducing portal in front of us is a more definite sign.

"Y'ready, Masao?"

"Maybe?" I offer weakly, shrugging. In truth, my heart hasn't slowed since the last excursion. Though I've been largely able to return to daily life after having everything I know about the universe turned on its big neon noggin, a thousand questions prod to be asked; they can wait. "I'm fine. Let's ruin this fucker's day."

"Hell yeah! Can I see your axe for a sec?"

"Sure, uh huh."

Yori kneels to unzip the bag I've absentmindedly dropped, removing my weapon. With a swipe of her hand, it drastically alters in both shape and size. What was once wooden and red is now jewel-embedded silver. I stare, slack jawed. Conservation of mass - what's that? She pulls out an ashen smock as well.

"What's this?"

"I don't want my new coat to get dirty," I explain, taking it from her to slip around my neck. I ignore her exasperated look and give my most enthusiastic, "Let's go!"

We do.

Along with Yori, I am instantly transported to a landscape very unlike the last I experienced. It is not a tunnel, instead appearing as a wide open field surrounded by rolling hills of wheat. Then I notice the seams running like veins across the sky's surface; it's a cavern, tapering off into a doorway opposite of where we're standing some thirty yards back. I find the whole scene's docility suspicious, as does Yori judging by her tense posture.

And she's wearing her purple fighter-girl outfit, scimitar drawn. When did that happen?

Burnt gray clouds, perhaps cursed by some wayward traveler in another life, float listlessly across the fake horizon. The lack of noise is a chilling contrast to our dual breaths.

"C'mon," Yori ushers.

Glinting axe tight in my right hand, we begin to walk side by side. One-dimensional birds flutter and reposition themselves in a faraway tree, a solemn group of sentinels that watch us approach the door. Paper grass folds into origami insects beneath our feet, skittering every which way. Finally arriving at our destination, Yori clutches the brass knob and turns. The suspense that has been building evaporates as we gaze into another room, smaller and considerably more boring than the last, the walls a deeper shade of blue.

We exchange a glance and move on, me fixing my partially tangled apron. The following rooms subscribe to a similar motif, darkening as they progress. As we venture ever inwards, the copy/pasted birds depart, the grass yellows, and a dreadfully unsettling atmosphere washes over me. We are being tailed.

Lanky men stalk a little ways back, their heads replaced with static televisions, the rest of them a contorted mess of singed flesh and live wire. The sparks they give off allow just enough illumination to view them in no great detail, a merciful thing indeed. I nudge Yori, but her knowing grimace is telling of the fact that she's already seen them. How long ago I can only guess, and cringe.

At last we arrive - _where_ I cannot tell with any degree of accuracy. The best I can hope to describe the area is as a spacious courtyard, dusky beneath a moon that wavers as though a reflection on a lake. Scattered haphazardly are three jutting tombstones, half-ovals casting impossibly stretched shadows that mimic arms. Though the door from which we entered is shut firmly behind us, the television men are snaking through, their tendrils pressing knicks in the frame.

I never assumed witches were visually uniform, but the one that stands, or rather hunches, before us is a vast change from the last. It has broad, asymmetrical shoulders, one rocky, the other plated with tan tiles. The 'face' is a sharp-toothed frown, pulling back to where its ears should be, anatomically; replacing them are a mess of metal poles, some copper, some iron. Maroon smoke pours from them, trails of wispy cotton that sink into the faux-night. Its eyes simmer blue like dead coal, aimed at me and Yori. It lets loose a motor-engine growl.

I lift my axe and steel myself for battle, smock swishing to the side action-hero style.

"I think we'll be back b'fore dinner, babe. Teriyaki at my place, how does that sound?"

Yori grins.

"- like a plan, Mazz."

* * *

**Reviews are always welcome. :)**


	5. Death and Axes

**I do not own Puella Magi Madoka Magica nor any of the anime's affiliates. **

**Discretion is Advised**

* * *

The ten seconds that follow are frenetic, and I find myself unable to keep pace with the action. Heavy arms like dual chimneys sweep dangerously low overhead, threatening at any moment to replace my upper torso with red mist; I duck and roll, occasionally diving flat against the ground.

Yori is zipping above me, a purple scimitar-wielding blur. Inhuman screeches rip from the witch's throat as it tosses its weighty frame around in a desperate bid to snag her. It throws itself into every motion with impossible stamina, shaking my already fragile balance. Imagine being caught in a very thin stampede and you'll understand.

While I'm struggling to stay afloat in this perilous back-and-forth whirlpool, the door leading into the room splinters apart; in pour three television men, their wire bodies slinking forward as they scan the area for the aggressor, Yori. Not paying the least bit of attention to me, the trio saunters past.

Oh no you don't.

Climbing to my feet, I clutch the stock of the silver axe in both hands and wind back. My first swing whistles through the air, slicing a television man in half as if he were steam. Sparking viscera sputters forth as both his top and bottom ends go limp and collapse. The other two minions twist their spindly selves to face me. Their screens' previous static form vague patterns: a bloody kitchen flits by before being replaced with a still image of a street, followed by a slideshow I ignore in favor of readying myself.

My next attacker whips his arm at me - I avoid by sidestepping. Or rather, _would have_, had I sidestepped. I'm lifted by the impact and flung backwards, clumsily landing on my shoulders. The grind of bone on bone makes me yell the last of the breath in my lungs before it's brutally expelled. A sharp twinge below my neck tells me I've pulled something, but I fight for clarity in the pain, gaining it long enough to lurch out of the path of a downward strike.

I temporarily use the length of my weapon to right myself-

_TWANG!_

- before using it to deflect yet another hit. The television man dives in my direction; I juke, retreat a step, and let the blade soar. It connects with my enemy's screen and continues, breaking through to the opposite side. The monster falls with a satisfying thud as the final one takes its place. Occupied as I am, Yori's situation is equally clear.

The witch, a gorilla-esque rock/tile/pipe/? abomination, seems no worse for wear. Unlike the previous personification of despair we battled, this one appears to be a great deal more adept. When Yori slashes, it dodges; when Yori stabs, it backtracks. Her advantageous speed falls flat against the witch's impressive coordination. And then it happens.

Blood-

"Yori!"

-like a terrible fog, dissipating even as it shoots from her wound. There is no longer a blur: there is only purple, and red. But not the kind I am familiar with - not the red of her hair. In my asphyxiation I am flipped by the remaining minion, set to roll and roll until a tombstone halts me. The last image my mind comprehends before falling away to black is grey slate, on which the following is inscribed:

_Hatsumi Nakamura,_

_Loving Wife and Mother, and Daughter, Sister..._

There is more to be read, but the curtains close.

End scene.

* * *

_Mid-day sun, so warm on her shoulders, clad in Summer clothing. A grey tank top, a maroon shawl - both hide her skin. Her grinning friend waves farewell as they part at a fork in the road. Tomorrow shall see them together again. For now, there is only the forward march. March is but a month away. _

_The street on which she lives is cookie-cutter, a uniform clone of its sleepy neighbor. Building by building passes by, house by house. Brick and brick and brick and tiles. Tiles for the roofs. Brick for the walls. Cement beneath her feet as she walks up the driveway. A loose contradiction - she smiles. _

_ It is beautiful. Her life is beautiful. But fake. Like the iridescent stones that provide fish-bowls with their floors. Like lasers on a ceiling. Like the electronic dinosaur toys she so often played with as a child. Fake, but not false. Is a withheld truth a lie? She doesn't like to think about it too much, lest she darken herself. _

_ She climbs the steps outside her front door, a handbag slung over her shoulder. Easy weight. Smoothing her skirt, shirt, shawl, she knocks, and finds the door ever so slightly open. Has her mother returned early from work? It's a Sunday. Has her father returned early from work? Doubtful. 3:00. Who is home? Hello?_

_ "Hello?" _

_ No answer, none expected. The telephone sings static in another room, surely off the hook. She glides as silent as a spectre, casting cautious glances into vacant rooms. Something is very, very... a discarded high heel… something is wrong. No pause, she continues the forward march, cutting the white with every footfall. _

_ The kitchen. _

_ She enters._

_ And blood. Fresh paint, peppered on the walls, running like veins drip drip dripping, stop. Stop. Her mother, belly torn open, eyes unseeing. Intestines long as legs. Her father, heaved over a table in a bid now purposeless. Head sitting in the sink, face down, drain clogged with hair. An inch of blood, at least. Baby - brother. Now he is neither. Stop._

_ A message inscribed in the colors of her family:_

_ STAY OUT OF MY TERRITORY_

_ The world falls away to black. _

_ Black._

* * *

I wake up.


End file.
